


noli me tangere

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Gratuitous Breeches, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: "Come on," Crowley said, coaxing. "I won't touch, you know I won't. Let me see."OR:Fancy meeting Crowley like this, in a wayside inn! How absolutely unexpected. Still, never mind: as long as they don't touch each other, everything is obviously fine and a Normal Time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 311





	noli me tangere

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Flaming Like Anything zine, which I believe you can still buy, here: https://flaminglikeanything.bigcartel.com/ 
> 
> The exclusivity period has now ended, so it can now go here too!

“I ought to send you away,” Aziraphale said. “My side have spies everywhere, you know. This can’t go on. I ought to ask you to leave this very moment — in no uncertain terms!” 

“Mm.” Crowley eyed him lazily, chin lifted, letting his gaze map Aziraphale from the top of his blond head to the points of his ridiculously decadent shoes. “ _ Should,  _ angel, maybe. You won’t, though, will you?” 

Aziraphale threw him a look of prim contempt which, inexplicably and predictably, made Crowley’s stomach clench with longing. “What would you know about it?” 

“I’ve known you five and a half thousand years,” Crowley reminded him, trying not to let his mouth quirk fondly at the look on Aziraphale’s face, all show and ruffled feathers. “You’ve never met an indulgence you wouldn’t circumnavigate a few core principles for.”

Aziraphale's forehead creased disapprovingly, but he said nothing. Crowley had been sure, insofar as he was ever sure of anything where the angel was concerned, that he would not. His silence gave Crowley the courage to close, with a thought, the shutters at the casement, casting the room into a near-darkness in which Aziraphale's eyes glittered. 

"Come on," Crowley said, coaxing. "I won't touch, you know I won't. Let me see." 

Aziraphale's sartorial choices were always, for want of a better phrase,  _ buttoned-up,  _ but this particular outfit took the concept to new extremes. His white breeches buttoned at the knee, at the fall-front that hid his crotch, and at the high waist which drew the eye up to his equally form-fitting and button-bedecked waistcoat. His tailcoat (in elegant faun) had more buttons than a demon could shake a stick at, should he possess one (Crowley himself had left his cane in his carriage). The white collar at Aziraphale's throat was not quite the bunch of lace of former decades, but nevertheless set off his face to fine advantage. Crowley's fingers itched to unwrap the angel like a parcel. 

But that was not the arrangement. Aziraphale's mother-of-pearl buttons were his own to free from their buttonholes, and Crowley must only watch, and be grateful for it. 

Aziraphale's gaze went guiltily to the shuttered window, then returned to Crowley's face, a slow shy look from under dipped lashes. He was always like this, Crowley thought desperately; by rights, he shouldn't have a shred of shyness left to him, and both of them knew it. And yet -- and still. That look on Aziraphale's face made Crowley's breath catch, his neck flush. Aziraphale's long fingers drifted to the buttons of his waistcoat, and Crowley sat down abruptly on the windowseat before his legs gave way. 

"I shouldn't," Aziraphale said, hesitant, and freed the uppermost button. 

"But I'm very persuasive." Crowley crossed one long leg over the other and watched as a second button came undone, then a third. "You'd never have come up with this alone, angel. They'll know I've made you do it." 

The lovely eyes closed for the barest moment, a flicker. Aziraphale shrugged off coat and waistcoat in one motion, letting both fall to the bed. "You  _ are  _ making me." 

"I know," Crowley said, soft. Aziraphale's hands were toying with the buttons of his shirt, now; not unfastening, but waiting. The thought made Crowley flood with heat, and he said, "Shirt now, angel, that's it. And whatever you've got underneath. Three layers, I bet." 

Aziraphale threw him a glare, but the flush on his cheeks, detectible to Crowley's snake eyes even in this dim light, was spreading down his throat in a way that Crowley knew well. It was the particular blush that said Aziraphale was thrilling with delicious mortification, and wanted more of it. It was the blush he wore when he was naked and touching himself under Crowley's hot gaze. 

Suddenly, Crowley couldn't wait for him to be bare. 

Patience, though. It wasn't the easiest virtue for a demon to embody, but Crowley had no idea how long it would be before he had Aziraphale like this again. It could be decades -- centuries -- before he was able to pour enough honey into Aziraphale's ear to coax him into such a state of deshabille, all pink and pliant. He watched Aziraphale discard shirt and (oh, he'd known it) silk vest, and growled low in his throat at the sight of him. 

"God," he said, "you're gorgeous. I could devour you." 

Aziraphale wet his lips, swallowed. His hand drifted to his stomach, then flattened there. "How?" 

For a second, Crowley thought he'd misheard. "Hmm?" 

"How," Aziraphale repeated, clear and firm. His head lifted, chin upraised. "Tell me how." 

"Fuck, angel --" Crowley clenched his hands into fists, fingernails biting hot crescents into the meat of his palms. This was new, and Crowley had to take a minute to breathe through the shock of it, the wave of want it set rolling through him. "I'd -- you're so fucking flawless. Unblemished. Your throat and your chest. Makes me want to leave marks on you."

"Like this?" Aziraphale's hand went to his throat, gripping. "Would you bruise me, Crowley? Leave me a necklace of fingerprints? Or scratch me?" Three fingers drawn down over the muscle of Aziraphale's upper chest, leaving raised red marks from clavicle to nipple. "They'd know you'd made me then, my dear. That you'd been rough with me." 

"Oh," Crowley said, his voice thickening in his throat, "I think you like it rough. That angelic face isn't fooling anyone." His fingers itched to touch himself; he pressed both hands to his thighs instead, flattening them there. "Grab your tits for me, sweetheart. Pinch those pink little nipples." 

" _ Mister  _ Crowley," said Aziraphale, ridiculously. It was a token protest so arch and absurd as to be almost self-parody, especially given that he was already obeying, rubbing his thumbs across the peaks of his nipples and hissing softly as he did so. His eyes had gone dark, heavy-lidded. "I have thought of your tongue, you know." 

_ Fuck.  _ Crowley's mouth flooded with saliva, and he pulled his thighs together, squeezing. "There, angel?" 

"Mmm." Aziraphale rolled one nipple between finger and thumb, then lifted his hand to his mouth. "Here. Like this." He brought spit-slick fingers back to his chest, rubbing them slowly over the raised peak of his nipple, and his low gasp of pleasure found an echo in Crowley's. "But also…" 

His hand began to trail downward, describing a meandering path over sternum and abdomen, coming to rest at the waistband of his breeches. His eyes, all pupil, met Crowley's; and Crowley's resolve met its match. 

"Angel," he said dangerously, rising from his seat, "I want the rest of this ridiculous finery off at once, do you hear me?  _ At once.  _ You've no choice in the matter." 

Aziraphale looked at him from under his eyelashes, the corners of his lovely mouth curving. "Ah," he said. "I quite understand. No choice at all." 

The next moment, he was naked, a vision of alabaster in the moonlight, and Crowley had to close his eyes for a second in self-defence. When he opened them again, Aziraphale had stretched himself out on the bed, all languid curves, and Crowley bit his lip against the picture he made. 

"So," he managed, strained, "you want my tongue on you, do you? Bit untoward for an angel, don't you think?" 

"I can't help it," Aziraphale said, soft. His knees were drawn demurely together; after a moment, he shifted, parting his thighs, and Crowley couldn't help but groan. He'd seen Aziraphale like this before, but he didn't think he could ever tire of it: the lush pale curls above his mons and the lips of his vulva swollen and wet with want. He was so slick that the insides of his thighs glistened with it; his little clit was stiff and straining out of its hood. It seemed to beg for Crowley's mouth, and Crowley made a low, yearning sound at the sight of it.

"Bloody hell, angel," he got out, "you're  _ drenched.  _ Bet it's like a hothouse down there." 

"Like an orchid garden," Aziraphale said, dreamily. "It's the thoughts you've put in my head, dear. All the little seeds of temptation. Now they're blooming, and I don't know what to do with them." 

"God, put your --" Crowley swallowed hard. "Better let me get a good look, angel, if you want my professional opinion. Put your fingers in your cunt for me, sweetheart. Tell me what it's like in there."

Aziraphale obeyed with an immediacy that made them both gasp. He pressed his middle finger inside himself, smooth and slow; the slick sound of it was audible in the quiet of the room and Crowley trembled, watching Aziraphale grind the heel of his hand against his clit, lifting his hips into the touch. 

"How's that?" His voice was shaking. 

For a moment, Aziraphale just breathed, his chest heaving, as if summoning the energy to speak. Then, "Wet," he said; "Oh, Crowley, I'm so wet. And so hot, it's as if I'm burning." 

"You're all right, angel," Crowley said, barely a breath. The throbbing between his own legs was now so intense, it was all he could do to form words. His underwear was soaked through and clinging. "Now bring your finger back out, that's it. Slowly. Bring all that lovely wetness with you, and touch your clit." 

"Like this?" Aziraphale was panting. His whole hand shone wet in the dim light, and when he drew the pads of his fingers around his clit, circling, his legs kicked out in reaction, a soft cry punched out of him. 

"Like that," Crowley said, roughly. He could feel the blood pounding everywhere, now; could hear the sound of it rushing in his ears. He felt as if holy fire were taking root at the core of him, spreading outward. His whole body was an aching emptiness that yearned to be filled. "Can I --" 

"Come closer," Aziraphale breathed, a pained little whisper hardly louder than the sound of him touching himself, the slippery strokes of his fingers. "If you can't see, if you-- oh --" 

He bit his lip, head falling back, and Crowley couldn't bear it a moment longer. He whimpered in wounded sympathy, pressing the heel of his hand almost cruelly hard between his legs. The bed was three steps away but he reached it in one long stride, and Aziraphale opened his eyes again to look at him, his gaze steady and black with heat. 

"Is this right?" he demanded in a voice that trembled. "It's not my -- oh -- Crowley, please show me how to do it, I can't. I need it.  _ Please."  _

_ By Satan, and all the western stars.  _ Crowley squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then: "Sure, angel. Anything. Look, it's…" 

A snap of Crowley's fingers, and he too was naked. The cool air of the room felt so good on his overheated skin that he groaned again just at the sensation of it. When he lifted his foot to brace it on the end of the bed, Aziraphale groaned too, his eyes going wide and the motion of his fingers picking up as if unconsciously. 

"So," Crowley said, swallowing the bolt of lust that threatened to stop his breath, "if you--" 

He drew two fingers lightly up the wet seam of himself, and Aziraphale outright moaned when the swollen lips parted like the petals of a flower at the touch. Crowley was so slick that the red brush of his pubic hair was soaked with it, and the sound of Aziraphale's approval made his cunt clench emptily on nothing, his whole body squeezing like a fist. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale panted, "you're so wet, so beautiful. Show me?" 

Crowley threw his head back, closed his eyes. He spread himself wide with both thumbs, and felt himself clench again at Aziraphale's cut-off whimper. 

"Inside?" Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley was powerless to wait another moment. All pretence of control fallen away, he plunged two fingers without prelude into the wet heat of his cunt and moaned, hips bucking forward. His thumb found his clit and circled, hard; the coaxing motion of his fingers inside himself met the downward stroke of his thumb and made his whole body spasm at the dual sensation. 

Below him on the bed, Aziraphale made a helpless sound of his own, and Crowley forced himself to open his eyes, to drink in the vision he made. Aziraphale was trembling now, his toes curling, pressing into the mattress, and both hands worked between his legs with wanton abandon. His eyes were fixed intently on Crowley's fingers where they crooked into his cunt. Aziraphale had crammed three fingers of his left hand inside himself; the other hand was moving desperately on his clit, working it in urgent circles. It was not at all the action of an angel who didn't know anything of his own pleasure, but then, if Aziraphale was such an angel, Crowley would not love him as helplessly as he did. Aziraphale was thoroughly unique, and Crowley loved every idiosyncratic fibre of him; his hypocritical fears and his coy glances and the way he looked when he came. 

Crowley felt himself spasm around his fingers at the thought of it, and bit his lip, watching the rapid motion of Aziraphale's hands. "Please, angel," he whispered, "let me see you come. Please?" 

"Oh,  _ Crowley--"  _ Aziraphale's right leg kicked out, shivering. He thrashed on the mattress, once, then turned his face to the side. " _ Crowley!"  _

"That's it," Crowley rasped, thumbing his clit faster, "that's it, sweetheart; you're gonna make me come just watching you; come on, angel, I l--" 

Aziraphale came, both knees drawing up and his body arched and trembling like a bow, and the sight of it was like a lightning bolt from above, like always; like being blinded by God's grace. Crowley stumbled, felt his cunt clutching urgently at his own fingers, and followed. 

They never said much, afterwards. Aziraphale lay in the quietude for a moment, breathing hard. Crowley miracled the pair of them clean and, after a second's grace, back into their clothes. When they could stand again, Aziraphale hauled himself upright and smoothed his jacket straight, looking at Crowley sidelong across the room. 

"I…" he began, and Crowley waved it away. As always:  _ it's nothing. It was all me.  _ And: _ We didn't touch each other, after all.  _

"Well," Aziraphale said, "I'm sure I shall see you anon." 

After a fraction of a second's hesitation, he held out his hand, and Crowley took it, feeling the chemical rush of love skitter through him at the solid warmth of it, the smooth skin. After all that -- after everything -- it was Aziraphale's hand in his own that was the pinnacle of this; Aziraphale's unguarded smile. 

"Yeah," Crowley said, "soon enough. And remember, if anyone says anything, you blame me. You hear? All me." 

Aziraphale smiled at him, his head cocked to the side. "Perhaps not all you, my dear," he said. 

He headed out into the night like a shadow. Crowley stood in the doorframe, gazing out after him. It was long after the darkness had swallowed him entirely that Crowley turned away and back into the room, where the bedsheets still held Aziraphale's lingering scent. 

  
  



End file.
